As was tradition, the day after a man came of age on Darkstone Isle, he left the peoples there to strike out into the world for one year, and one day, to see what adventure and excitement could be found; after that year and a day, he must return to complete his apprenticeship. Only when he became a full Sparksinger could he leave again once more, to do what he could, should, must; to ply his trade across the lands of Terremond. In that year and a day, the man could do whatever he wished, so long as he did three things; he had to return within that year and a day, he could not bring anything back with him, and he must never speak a word of their secrets to another.

For Malachi, that day had come.

At five gongs, he was woken roughly, the ale and wine and mead of the previous evening still swirling and pounding their way through his skull; he was dragged from his bed, and hands- he could not count how many, but more than belonged to just one person- tugged his bedclothes from him, stripped him naked, scrubbed him 'til his skin was singing with pain and hurt, swiped a razor over his beard, and a blade around his hair, and then dressed him, almost tenderly, in the ceremonial clothes.

Blearily he peered at himself in the mirror, eyes widening at the sight he saw; if the golden star tattooed over his left temple and eye had not marked him out as one of the Children of the Neardark, then his skin and hair surely would have done- nowhere else in the Five Lands had the same red-gold hair, nor the same sun-gold skin. More than that, though, was the burn on his right cheek, an angry welt that persisted even now, a remnant of his naming ceremony; a baptism by fire in both name and act. His beard still refused to grow properly over the spot, and he found himself frowning at it, wishing now more than ever that it could vanish, that he could show the world only the handsome young man he'd grown into, and not the boy he'd been, the child who had squirmed too much, had burned themselves more than they should.

His body, long-limbed, lithe, and tall, was clad in the finest clothes the Isle had to offer; silk and wool the dark, bruised blue of a perfect Sparksinger's canvas; the clothes inlaid with golden dots here and there, so that when he moved, even just a little, he shimmered in the morning light.

At six gongs, torn from the mirror by a matronly attendant, he approached the Plateau, the traditional meeting ground; around the edges and sides and walls sat friends and family and people he knew, all watching carefully, all watching with anticipation. In the middle, stood facing him, were five figures he knew well enough- five figures who would present him with gifts for his travels.

From Ruide, the Elder, the leader of the Sparksingers, the Father of The Children, and a man who could create with more dexterity and finesse in his three-fingered hand than most could with their full, presented him with a cloak of finest material, studded with golden dots and tiny gemstones; this, he told Malachi, was both a symbol of who he was, and something for an emergency- in a pinch, he could simply take the gemstones from the cloak, and sell them for clips- money he'd need to use to pay the dusters, the alchems, the erbiques, men and women who would provide him with the materials for his Skybrights.

From Tremlyn, his father, he received a starstone sword; though in truth, the stone was more metal in origin. Blue-black in hue, it was known to be the strongest, sharpest material in the Five Lands, unbreakable and untarnishable; this sword, his father told him, much like his family, his friends, his love for his son, would always be there. Malachi had to blink back tears at that, patting his father extra hard on the back, holding on to him just a little tighter until he recovered.

From Emerine, his mother, he was gifted a fine staff, thicker than his thumb and taller than his head, made of the same dark stone that the isle was named for, topped with a small golden star that, if he squinted, he could see glowed faintly. This, she told him, was to show he would be supported by his home, and his family, wherever he went; this did cause him to cry, but as he hugged her, she told him how proud she was of him, how much she would miss him, and how he had better be good whilst he was gone.

From Eucerin, his best friend, ever the practical person, he had a sextant; this, the boy told him, would help him find his way wherever he was, would help him see the stars in the sky, and help him choose which ones to tame, which ones to place into his Skybrights, which ones to take with him.

From Kerley, the girl he'd grown up with, and loved, and was known to be all-but betrothed to he received a medallion; a dark blue leather thong held a golden star-shape, with an inscription on the flat reverse side of it. This, she said, was written in the ancient script of the first Sparksingers, and said that he belonged to her, to the Isle. When he slipped it over his neck, at her insistence, he found that the medallion hung low enough to be close to his heart- warm despite the metal; this, she spoke with a soft smile, would be so that wherever he went, she would remain close to his heart. For this he kissed her long and hard, ignoring the gasps and whoops and cries of those around him.

In addition to these gifts, he accepted the traditional gifts of the Leavers; a bag containing two hundred clips- enough money for three months of provisions and lodgings; a box containing the makings of several Skybrights (the dusts, the erbs, the powders from the alchem), a smaller box containing several tamed stars, and papers, written in the finest hand, on the finest calfskin, proclaiming him an official Sparksinger; a Star Tamer of the highest degree.

He bade his farewells to his family and friends, hefted his pack onto his back, and began making way down the Myriad Stairs- there were said to be as many stairs as there were stars in the sky, and though many had attempted to count, none had been successful.

At eight gongs, he was on the ship, heading to the mainland. He had never set foot on a ship before, and the rocking and the roiling and the shifting had left him feeling unwell; the captain, a jovial, rotund man who had the full star-and-flame of a Star Tamer, muttered cheery commiserations as Malachi vomited over the side, told him he wasn't the first young man to become unwell, to be at the mercy of the Ganeri Sea.

Three days it took them to reach land; the final few hours of the approach, Malachi braved the deck to watch the land come closer, and he was glad he did; he'd chosen Whytestoan City as his place to venture, and as they drew nearer, the morning sun glinted off the red of the Sunspire Mount at the centre of the city, the ancestral home of the kings and queens of the city, of the land of Terremond. It was a sight that took his breath away; the pure white stone from which the city drew its name, combined with the red-gold hue of the mount at the centre; already, in his head, he was calculating patterns and colours, working out what materials he would need to capture the shape and colours of the city in a Skybright.

The captain clapped him on his shoulder, startling him from his revelry, and told him that luckily, they would soon be there, ahead of a storm that was, in his words, 'almost up their arse'. Luckier still, he said, they were just two-span away from Moon Day in the city, a celebration for which many would certainly need a Skybright or two; Malachi noted this, realising that if he began soon, he could make enough and sell enough to keep him in clips for most of the time he'd be in the city.

As they made port, the captain told him of several inns he knew that were friendly to their kind, of men he knew that could provide the young man with premises, with a workshop, where he could Malachi thanked the captain enthusiastically, and set out.

Within a gong, he was, he had to admit, hopelessly lost; the city was far larger than anything he'd been in before, almost ten times as large as the entirety of the Isle, and he had to admit that perhaps he'd been a little overeager, that perhaps he'd foolishly chosen a place he had no right to be in.

He had noticed, though, that everywhere he went, people looked at him- some merely glanced then glanced again, whilst others openly stared, mouths agape in wonder and curiosity. He was sure he made an odd sight; a man as tall as he in a city of men who seemed a head shorter, dressed dark, shining gold in his hair, on his chest, spotted amongst his clothes. The staff he clutched in one hand, and the sword on his hip, must have made him seem a deadlier person than he was- in truth, he had no idea if he'd be able to use either if he needed to, and he hoped he had no need.

Eventually he found himself an inn, auspiciously named 'The Sun and Stars' , and decided to room there. Stepping inside, he found a large, warm room, albeit a quiet one- men chatted quietly at a table in the corner, and a roaring fire in the hearth made the room much cosier and more comfortable than the slight chill outside. A serving girl darted here and there, delivering food and drink to patrons speckled across the tables of the tavern, and as one passed him with a plate, he smelled pork, spices, that made his stomach rumble and his mouth water.

Behind the bar stood a woman, pleasantly plump, with a matronly sort of face that broke into a warm smile as he approached. She knew what he was by the sight of him, she said, and when he opened his mouth and spoke in the heavily-accented, slightly stilted speech of his people, she simply smiled a little wider and said it would be her honour to have a Sparksinger beneath her roof. His own smile slipped a little as he told her he was still not yet a true Star Tamer, but her joy was unabashed- either would prove useful in the spans hence, she said, for the city was crying out for his kind.

She told him to take a table in the corner, as she arranged for his belongings to be taken to his room; a room he'd negotiated a cut rate for, in return for sharing his talents and giving her a glorious show for Moon Day.

As he sat, he found himself watching the room and realised, with some small amount of wonder, and a larger amount of anxiety, that he had no idea what he would do next.

Have an adventure, or the like, he supposed.

Basically, what I'm wondering is this; it's all well and good him being away for a year, and being all-but-betrothed, but he's never seen the world outside. He's never known other people, never had the chance to love anyone else.
So what if he meets someone? What if the adventure he sets out to have consists of forging out a nice little life for himself, there in the city? Or perhaps he falls in with some real adventurers, throws in his lot with someone seeking treasure, riches, power?

I'm open to ideas on this one, pretty much, and brainstorming is always good.

I'd like to keep this relatively vanilla, but if you have any kinks you'd desperately love to throw into the mix, let me know, and I'll see what we can do.

Also, even if you're not interested in doing anything with this, feedback on the writing itself is always appreciated.